Ichor
by Phreakycat
Summary: Ichor- In Greek mythology, the substance that serves as blood to the Gods. Said to be poisionous to mortal beings." A tag to Jump the Shark.


Title: Ichor  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: General for the series, Mystery Spot, major spoilers for Jump the Shark  
Warnings: Blood, mature themes, swearing.  
Disclaimer: They belong to Kripke, even though he hasn't been very nice to his toys this season...  
Summary: "Ichor"- In Greek mythology the substance that serves as blood to the Gods, said to be poisionous to mortal beings. A tag to Jump the Shark.

A/N: Jump the Shark was a veritable goldmine of fanfic fodder, and who am I to resist? Especially when Kripke left such a huge, gaping, hole between the scene in the house and the scene in the graveyard. So this is my attempt to make some sense of the episode, as well as bridge the gap between the feel of the rescue scene and the cemetery scene. Once again the stupendous Faye Dartmouth was generous enough to act as my beta, and the quality of this work was greatly improved by her insight and keen eye for editing. Thanks, Faye - you rock! Edits were made after her last look-over, however, so any and all errors are mine and mine alone.

If you like the story (or don't) and feel inclined to comment, I would love to hear your opinion. Feedback is ALWAYS greatly appreciated, but I won't beg for it. :)

* * *

Sam Winchester was bleeding to death.

He could kill a demon with his mind, send hell-spawn scattering in fear, and he'd let a ghoul wearing the shape of a skinny nineteen year-old knock him out, tie him up, and slice him open. It was so _stupid_, such a rookie mistake, and still he was reeling with the realization that Adam was not Adam, that these things had eaten his little brother and were about to have him for dessert.

Now, thanks to his mistake, his brother was crashing through a French door and grunting in pain, and Sam's life was dripping _ping ping ping_ into pretty white bowls.

Thing was, underneath the instinctual horror of feeling his blood pump out of his body, there was a strange and irrational sort of acceptance.

Relief, even.

He didn't want to die – really, he didn't – but he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to keep fighting, either. He was so goddamn _tired_; so tired of trying to find hope amidst all of this suffering. It was true, what he'd said to Dean in their hotel room: none of this was real. Not the good stuff, anyway. Not the stuff that he used to dream of, long for. It was just spun sugar – pretty and sweet and ready to crumble and melt with a single harsh touch.

It all seemed so foolish now, to have thought he could leave behind hunting for a life of nine-to-five jobs and happily ever after. Beyond foolish – it had been selfish and dangerous. He hadn't left anything behind except his family (…_you ditched us for Stanford_…), foolishly burning those bridges on his naïve quest for something better. Now he would give anything to be able to undo that mistake. He'd give it all back if he could change his family's fate, gladly trade in all of the warm, happy moments with Jess in order to spare her life.

The cost of that dream had been too high. He'd dragged darkness and violence behind him, an inescapable shadow that had swallowed the woman he loved and spit her out in an explosion of fire and blood.

_Blood…_

And wasn't this hunt really all about the blood? The blood of family - the blood he shared with a dead father he was only beginning to know, with a dead brother he would never know. And the living brother that he felt knew him less and less. But there was a reason for that. A reason Sam was turning himself into a stranger.

_His_ blood… the blood that was still dribbling from his opened veins. His godforsaken, tainted blood – the thing that had called hell down on his family and everything he loved. He had never wanted it. He had only wanted to save his brother -only wanted to save Dean. Dean had put everyone else before himself, always. He'd gone to Hell for Sam – and wasn't that backwards? Sam owed Dean. Owed him more than he could ever repay. So if it was a question of Dean's life, Dean's soul, or Sam's redemption? Sam would annihilate his own soul without question or hesitation.

It was a small price to pay for his brother, for the world. Sam knew he'd been cursed all along, never any hope of being right, but he'd thought that maybe the weapon meant to destroy humanity could be used in its defense, instead. Maybe he could be good. Maybe his blood could _mean_ something.

But despite everything he had tried, every good intention he'd had, it was nothing more than the thing that set him apart. The thing that made angels hate him and Dean fear him. The thing that drew him increasingly further from Heaven, closer and closer to Hell and the things they hunted.

Things like Ruby.

Somewhere inside him, her blood _sweetspicyfieryrush_ mingled with his own. And even as he felt his heartbeat begin to gallop and his vision began to swim, even as he heard the sound of his brother fighting for both their lives ten feet away, there was a desperate twinge of anger as he felt that dark power leak from his arms. It had been fading anyway, - too many nights since he'd last taken her in (and the definition of "too many nights" just kept getting shorter…) - but still the loss of even that faint tingle felt like having his guts torn out, like having the air stolen from him. Like, well…. bleeding to death.

He hated the ghouls for taking that from him– more than the pain of their knives in his flesh, more than the hideous truths that had spilled from their lips. He hated them for leaching Ruby's blood from him, wanted to fight and yell and scream _mine!_ until they understood what they were taking from him. He was appalled to realize that he hated them for this theft of blood nearly as much as he hated them for their theft of a brother. And he hated _himself_ for that ugly revelation.

But maybe this was for the best. Because as much as he told himself that her blood was a means to an end, nothing more than bullets to a gun, he knew it was more. Knew it was changing him, digging in, feeding the yawning need that just got bigger and deeper and darker every time that coppery sweet taste exploded over his tongue. So if he had to die, maybe this was the way to do it. Maybe if he just bled and bled and bled, it would all leave him – Ruby, his cursed blood – and he could be clean.

God, _clean_. Sam longed for clean like small children longed to grow up and be astronauts or princesses. The way people longed for true love and happy endings.

So, yes, he would be empty, and dead, but it was better than being a vessel for un-holiness and pain. Maybe, if his heart pumped all of the filth out of him, heaven would let him in and he could rest.

Then Dean wouldn't have to look at him with that poorly-hidden fear and disgust in his eyes, would never have to wrestle with that question of _when does 'hunter' trump 'brother_.' He would never have to look at Sam over the barrel of a gun and pull the trigger. God, Sam didn't want that fate for Dean.

Just like Sam didn't want to have to feel that gut-wrenching shame every time he lied to Dean, or slipped out into the night to do things that would break his brother's heart. His brother….

…wasn't making a sound.

The sudden silence echoed beyond the _thumpthumpthump_ of his own racing heartbeat, and every thought of his own cursed life fled, chased out by the sudden fear that Dean had gone and preceded him out of this fucked up world. And wouldn't that be Dean? To plow on ahead, to somehow manage to simultaneously lead the way and leave him behind.

He tugged again at the ropes, now slick with blood, and found enough air to yell "Dean!" but not enough to say, "Don't go."

Then there was the sound of footsteps, boots thudding against the wooden floor in time to the pounding in Sam's ears, and Sam felt a wave of relief and weakness rush through him like heat. Dean's familiar profile swam into view, silver glinting in his hand as his big brother sagged against the table and sliced through Sam's bindings.

Sam's right arm came free with a suddenness that sent fire blazing through to his fingertips and he groaned, wishing he could just keep on fading out, slipping away to where there was no pain. But Dean was there, talking to him in that voice that said _stay with me, don't you dare let go_, and after everything he had done to his brother already he couldn't bring himself to disobey.

An answering agony flared in his left arm as Dean freed it, and Sam struggled to lift his head, wanting to curl around the pain. But his spine seemed to have turned to water and his head thudded back against the table, involuntary groans puffing past his lips as he panted for air. Ever a stubborn Winchester, he forced quaking muscles to lift his heavy head again and blinked woozily at his right arm as Dean cut away the tape over his chest. He half expected to see sulpher oozing from the wounds, but it was just long, ugly cuts and deep crimson, red-soaked hemp twining around his wrist like a gory bracelet.

Dean's arm snaked under his shoulders then, pulling him into a sitting position as stars exploded behind his eyes and Dean's gruff voice muttered _come on, come on, come on._ Drawing his throbbing arms in towards his body, Sam grunted and gritted his teeth. For all his dark musings on the appropriateness of this bloodletting, seeing the actual damage to his flesh was startling and more than a little nauseating.

There was blood all over his hands, still trickling off his fingertips, and the saturated ropes just made him think _trapped_. Gasping, he snaked numb, clumsy fingers under the loosened binding of his left wrist and tugged, desperate to get it off.

Somehow it didn't really help much, and he couldn't stop the pained sounds that continued to push past his lips. There didn't seem to be enough air, and god, it _hurt_.

But Dean was there, beside him, muttering reassurances in the tone Sam had been hearing since the first time he skinned his knees – the _I'm here, let me fix this_ voice Sam had been aching for for months.

"Hang on," Dean was telling him. "Alright… here we go. Here we go…"

His brother's voice overrode the sharp burn in his arms as Dean pressed towels against his wounds, clasping them in place with a strong grip that conveyed more than just a desire to staunch the bleeding.

"Here we go, buddy…"

Sam's blood was coloring the creases of Dean's hands, staining them, but Dean didn't seem to care. For once, blood wasn't standing between them and driving them apart. There was nothing but concern and reassurance in Dean's eyes as he breathed out _Alright, alright…_ and Sam felt such a surge of overwhelming love for his brother that his breath caught.

Dean was looking at him, relief and affection and concern blending into an expression that was oh, so familiar and had been so missed recently. Sam wanted to say _I'm sorry, don't give up on me, I love you_, but instead he said "Thank you," hating how breathy and inadequate it sounded as he leaned his shoulder gently into Dean's arm.

It was enough, though. Sam could see it in Dean's eyes, a moment where they were just brothers again. The two of them against the world, and fuck angels and demons and everything in between because they had each other.

"That's what family's for, right?" Dean said softly. And before Sam could think of a response, Dean was telling him to put pressure on his arms and was moving away. There was rustling and some muffled cursing from the kitchen before he reappeared, more towels in his hands.

Sam couldn't do more than sit and gasp for air as Dean added more layers to the make-shift bandages, wincing as Dean tied a longer cloth around each forearm and cinched the knots tight against the worst of the damage. The dining room was beginning to spin lazily around him, and he had the sudden image of himself floating in an ocean on the damned table like a castaway.

"Sammy? Come on, stay awake, man. Stay with me."

Dean's voice sounded far away, the tacky palm cupping the back of Sam's neck doing little to anchor him.

He blinked heavily, the imaginary scene changed, and he was drifting away on a sea of _blood_, vermillion waves roaring and crashing over him, pulling him under into red, then black, then nothing.

* * *

Sam dreamed.

He was back in the dining room, surrounded by the smell of blood. This time, though, he stood with the knife in his hand, and it was Ruby bound to the table.

"Come on, Sam," she was saying, voice breathy and full of innuendo. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

She pulled at the ropes in a way that implied she had no real desire to free herself, arching her back and twisting suggestively.

"No," Sam protested, but his hand was moving towards the faint blue line of her vein like an unstoppable force. "I don't want this anymore."

The tip of the blade touched down against the pale inside of her wrist, and she arched her head back in something that looked like pain and arousal at the same time.

"Maybe you don't want it," she told him, licking her lips, "But you _need_ it now. You need it, and lucky for you, I'm willing to give it."

Then her other hand was somehow free and wrapping around his fingers on the knife, slashing it through her flesh with inhuman strength. Red welled up and coated her skin even as Sam tried to jerk away, tried to fight the surge of need that welled up in him at the sight, the coppery smell.

"You can have it," Ruby was saying, that sardonic, sexy smirk on her face. "You can have it _all_."

When Sam looked away from her darkly glittering eyes, back to the flayed flesh of her arm, pale wriggling maggots were spilling out with the blood. They squirmed and thrashed in the sticky flow, falling to plop sickeningly into the bowl below.

"No!" Sam cried, wanting to step back, to run. But his traitorous hand was reaching out, fingers sinking into the writhing mess of carrion-eaters and scooping them into his palm, lifting them towards his face.

Throat closing up in horror and shame, Sam watched helplessly as the maggots dug under his skin, wriggled into his flesh, and disappeared inside him.

Became a part of him, ready to fill him with death and vileness.

Sam woke, screaming and alone in a hospital room.

* * *

Before the echo of his cry had faded from the room, Dean was rushing through the doorway. There was a look of alarm on his face and a coffee cup in his hand, and when he saw Sam awake he zeroed in like a cruise missile.

"Hey, Sam, take it easy, you're okay," he reassured, setting aside the coffee and bracing his hands on Sam's shoulders. "You're safe now."

Fighting to bring his panicked breathing back under control, Sam slumped back against the pillows and closed his eyes, thinking _I'm never safe, and neither is anyone else_.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean was saying, letting go of Sam's shoulders. There was the faint creak of a plastic hospital chair scooting forward, and Dean sighed. "I just left to get coffee, you were still out. But I should have stayed."

"It's okay, Dean." Sam opened his eyes and cast a weary glace around the room. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, just frickin' _barely_," Dean huffed, scrubbing a hand over his spiky hair. "You lost a hell of a lot of blood, Sam. They gave you seventy-five stitches and transfused you, but you were in bad shape. Scared the shit outta me."

Sam looked down at his arms for the first time since waking up, but all he could see was a lot of white gauze and medical tape. They still throbbed, but now it was the dull ache of healing masked by pain meds, instead of the shocking intensity of fresh injury.

"Do they think I tried to… you know…" Sam trailed off, uncomfortable. He hadn't inflicted these wounds himself, but for a few moments in that dining room he had almost wished he could let go. There was the tiniest grain of truth in the assumption that he was suicidal, and it was a revelation that left him feeling ashamed and sick. If Dean knew… Still, it was better than the whole truth. Better than revealing what he _really_ was.

"Well," Dean sighed, "I told them you fell through a plate glass door, and cut up your arms when you used them to sheild your face. The hole in your side and the nice shiner you've got blooming on your cheek helped lend a little credibility to the story, since they don't really fit with the whole 'suicidal' scenario. But I'm not sure they're buying it 100%, and it's probably best if we get out of here as soon as possible."

"Alright," Sam agreed. He hated hospitals, and the idea of being held on a suicide watch… He had no problem with leaving sooner rather than later.

"There's another thing," Dean said, avoiding Sam's eyes. "I found Adam, the real Adam, and his mom. Or, what's left of 'em. They're in this old tomb. I mean, I suppose we could leave them there – it's technically a resting place, but it seems… wrong."

"We need to give them a better send-off," Sam said softly, his voice breaking. "He really was our brother, even if we never actually met him. I… I think dad must have loved Adam's mom, or at least cared about her. He'd want us to put her to rest. And they died violently, Dean. We need to take… precautions."

Dean's face twisted with a mix of grief and bitterness, and Sam knew how much it hurt his brother that John had had a whole other family. That he'd been willing and able to give Adam love expressed in baseball games and an arm over the shoulder, instead of the legacy of revenge and violence he'd bestowed upon them. It hurt Sam, too, thinking of all the times John had condemned his desire for a normal life. All of the times his father had dismissed it as selfish and unrealistic, all the while coveting the same thing for Adam.

"Okay," Dean said, "Let's get you out of here first; you can rest up for the evening, and tonight we'll finish it."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, "Okay."

Because really, what else was there to say?

* * *

They burned Adam's mother first. Another woman a Winchester had loved, gone in fire. Sam muttered a brief eulogy over her ashes while Dean constructed a hastily-built pyre just outside the old crypt.

His brother had been withdrawn since they arrived at the cemetery, his face hard and his movements angry. And Sam, Sam was still shaky and feeling weak, his arms heavy and mostly useless as he cradled them to his sides. They'd slipped out of the hospital without signing him out, which meant no prescription painkillers when he left. The opiates they'd pumped into him in the ER had worn off hours ago, and the discomfort made his gut clench and sweat pool between his shoulders.

It didn't help that Sam couldn't help stop remembering the smile on the ghoul's face as he practiced shooting, the eager spark of interest that lit his eyes as Sam taught him about their life. He knew it hadn't been real, knew that the monster wearing his little brother's face had drawn them in and fooled them. But the ghoul had had Adam's memories, his dreams and emotions stored somewhere in that false skin, and was it such a stretch to think that maybe the easiest way for it to pass as human had been to just be _Adam_?

He couldn't stop picturing that goofy half-smile, couldn't stop imagining the real Adam saying _I have brothers?_ and Sam was dismayed to feel his throat closing off with unshed tears.

Maybe… Maybe it didn't have to be with way. Hell, coming back from the dead was practically a Winchester family tradition. No one even had to make a deal – maybe the angels could help?

Beside him, Dean snapped a dry branch over his leg and tossed it on the pyre.

"Are you sure we should do this?" Sam asked, unable to look away from the wrapped figure resting before him. Dean grabbed the bottle of lighter fluid out of Sam's hand with a harsh look, sending a little shiver of pain up Sam's arm.

"Ghouls didn't fake those pictures," his brother said, dousing the corpse with accelerant. "And they didn't fake Dad's journal. Adam was our brother. He died like a hunter, he deserves to go out like one."

Sam swallowed heavily, not sure how Dean would take what he said next. Resurrection was a loaded topic in their family.

"Maybe we could bring him back," he said carefully. "Get a hold of Cas, call in a favor."

_God knows he owes us._

Dean cast an impenetrable look at him and said, "No, Adam's in a better place," before lighting the match and tossing it on the pyre.

Sam wanted to be angry that Dean had dismissed his idea and lit the fire without giving him a chance to make his case. For all his talk about Adam being their brother and deserving a hunter's send-off, Dean had skipped right over any sort of eulogy or parting words and lit the pyre like he was lighting a gas grill.

But is was hard to focus on being angry when he was so distracted by the idea that Dean apparently believed in Heaven these days. It was comforting to know that his brother had that hope of a better place, but it had come as a surprise and Sam wondered when it had happened, and how he had failed to notice.

Beside him, Dean stared grimly at the fire, the orange light casting his eyes in shadows. Sam tried to imagine how Dean would have been with Adam, given a chance and given time. Would he have been happier, having a little brother that didn't lie and consort with demons? Someone who still had hope and innocence and a need to be protected?

He was broken out of his ruminations by Dean's steely voice.

"You know, I finally get why you and Dad butted heads so much."

Sam said nothing, just glanced sideways to try and gauge his brother's expression.

"You two are practically the same person," Dean continued, and Sam could hear the undercurrent of bitterness in his tone, see it on Dean's face as Sam turned to look at him directly.

"I mean, I practically worshipped the guy," Dean scoffed. "You know, I dressed like him, I acted like him, I listened to the same music. But you are more like him than I will ever be. I see that now."

Dean's voice was low and hard, and the words sounded like a proclamation of judgment.

For all that Dean had worshipped their Dad, Sam knew his brother's observations were not meant to be complimentary. Dean wasn't talking about John's skill, his drive, or his determination. He was talking about obsessive nature, embracing revenge, the sacrifice of everything outside of this dark and dangerous lifestyle. Qualities Dean had so easily accepted in their father, and was so quick to condemn in Sam.

Couldn't Dean see _why _Sam had made this slow shift towards the John Winchester outlook on life? Didn't he remember pulling his little brother out of a burning apartment while Sam screamed for his dead girlfriend? Didn't he remember that Sam had watched Dean die, had had his _whole_ family ripped from him? Hell, given that all it had taken to turn John into the consummate hunter was losing his wife, was surprising that Sam hadn't gone the same route sooner.

John had suffered the loss of one precious person. Sam had seen his father die, his girlfriend sliced open and burned. He'd seen Dean die more than a hundred times, seen Dean eviscerated by hellhounds before his eyes. He'd lost _everything. _He'd been the last one standing, with nothing to lose.

Could Dean really blame him for surrendering to the need for revenge? Could he be blamed for not wanting to risk "normalcy" again?

Still, Sam feigned ignorance, trying to salvage some of Dean's damaged memory of John. Sam knew that Dean's personal version of grief was to take the pain and transform it into anger. He knew what this was, had seen it before, could still remember Dean's voice as he'd said _that's what family's for, right?_

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, proud that he kept his voice from trembling.

Dean's face tightened, and his voice sounded like a slamming door as he said "Take it any way you want."

Sam's gut clenched and he tightened his hands into fists unthinkingly, fire exploding in his forearms. He couldn't stop a little grunt of discomfort from escaping his throat, and saw Dean give him an appraising look.

"You okay?" Dean asked, and just a hint of concern was back in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam replied. But his knees were beginning to shake, and the despair he had felt tied to that table was worming its way back into him.

"Sure you are," Dean muttered disbelievingly, hard fingers curling around Sam's bicep and guiding him gently to a nearby log. "Sit down before you fall down."

Thudding clumsily into a seated position on the fallen tree, Sam pulled his arms in against his chest and studiously avoided looking at his brother. Some of the concern Sam had seen in Dean's eyes earlier was back. But the resentment was still there, too, and Sam didn't want to see it.

He was too tired to deal with all of this.

And still, even though he already knew the answer, he found himself asking.

"Why are you so mad at Dad?"

Why are you so mad at me?

Dean sat next to him on the felled tree and sighed.

"He was a hypocrite."

It was possibly the harshest thing Sam had ever heard his brother say about John, and it threw him a little.

"I mean, I never thought dad was really capable of being a 'normal' father, ya know?" Dean asked, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I was okay with it, with him. Like I said – I practically worshipped the guy. I just figured, Mom's death had ruined the part of him that could just be a parent. The way he raised us… I always assumed it was the best he could do, the only way he could do it."

"It was," Sam said, sounding stronger than he felt. "Dad did the best he could. I hated him for it for so long, and god I regret that now, but it was for the best."

Couldn't Dean see that? Hadn't Dean been the one trying to tell him that all these years?

"Bullshit, Sam – did you _see_ those pictures in Adam's house? Did you see how happy dad looked? When did you ever see him smile like that, let alone get a frickin' _picture_ of it?"

The same thought had crossed Sam's mind, and still it made him feel angry and hurt to hear the words come out of Dean's mouth. If Dean thought Sam and John were practically the same person, the cutting remarks directed at their father were directed at Sam, too.

"That wasn't real, Dean!" Sam insisted. "Adam, his mom, they were a fantasy, an escape. Dad could maintain that illusion with them because he barely ever saw them. And look where it got them – dead and eaten like livestock. Dad may have raised us like warriors, but at least we were ready when the things in the shadows came crawling out to kill us. At least we know what's out there, and how to kill it."

Dean was staring at him with a look akin to pity, and it sent a stronger flash of anger through Sam's gut.

"When the hell did you get so bitter, Sammy?" Dean asked, and Sam could hear the unspoken question; _When the hell did you turn into Dad?_

"When I watched hellhounds rip you apart, Dean." Sam growled. "During the four months that you were burning in hell for me, when I learned how to be completely alone in the world. When the point finally got driven home, that everything I touch _dies_ and suffers because I'm _cursed_. I mean, come on- didn't you and dad spend _years_ telling me to pull my head out of my ass and get with the program, to accept the fact that 'normal' was something I could never have? Something I should never have even tried for? Well, trust me, I see that now. I finally accepted that I'm a hunter, that it's my life, and now you're unhappy about it? What the hell do you want, Dean?"

"Not this," Dean said, the coldness gone from his voice. "Never this, Sammy. I never wanted you to feel like this, to give up. I never wanted you to lose that hope that someday there would be an end to this. I know we pushed you too hard to embrace hunting, but I was selfish, and I just wanted you safe, with us. With me. I was wrong. Dad was wrong. And I… I never meant for you to…"

Dean trailed off, looking away, and Sam felt the anger drain out of him. This wasn't what he wanted, them at each other's throats again. He wanted the brother that had briefly reappeared when he was bleeding out. He wanted to be able to be the little brother that he knew Dean wanted.

"I know, Dean," he whispered. "I just… I'm so damn _tired_. I don't think I can-"

Emotion closed off his throat, but he wasn't really sure what he was trying to say anymore, anyhow.

It was so unfair, all of it. Their upbringing had been war and weapons, fear and loss, and still they were losing against the darkness. Adam had had the life Sam had always coveted, normal and stable and bright, and he'd ended up some monster's living, screaming dinner. Their dad had had two families, and had chosen two different paths for them, and still, they had both led to the same bloody ends.

"Sam," Dean said, draping an arm carefully over Sam's shoulders. Sam's heart ached with longing and gratitude at the contact.

"We're gonna make it, okay?" Dean continued. "I know you're tired – I am too – but we're gonna find a way through this. We've got help this time, proof that there's something out there other than the darkness, and damn it, we're due some sort of frickin' reward for all of this sacrifice. When it's done, when Lilith is dead and ol' Lucy is stuck in Hell for good, we're taking a vacation. An honest-to-god vacation, somewhere warm where the chicks sunbathe topless, and you can get those fruity drinks you like with the little umbrellas in them. Shit, Cas can foot the bill – his angel ass owes us."

Sam tried to laugh, and managed something that was more like a sob. Dean cupped the back of his head and drew it down to rest on a leather-clad shoulder, and Sam took deep shaky breaths as he fought not to break.

He considered telling Dean that he was wrong – that they were never going to get out of this slide into darkness. That already Sam was trying to figure out when he could see Ruby, when he could get back that power that he loved and hated and feared all at the same time. That even if they lived through all of it, they were both so fucking _broken_ that it would be pointless.

But Dean's hand was warm on his neck, Dean's heart was beating under his cheek, and for the moment it was only the two of them in the world, the way it had always been before. He'd lost everything, lost _himself_, but he still had Dean.

Surrounded by a sea of darkness, buoyed in a tiny island of light made by their brother's burning body, Sam dared to let the smallest spark of hope flare to life within him.

Things weren't okay, not by a long shot, but they were still brothers - still here - and for now, it was enough.

_fin_

* * *


End file.
